Page 37 of A Perfect Fit

“Nice try.” Jackson reaches for his beer. “Too bad I paid the bill for drinks earlier, so I won’t be leaving.”

“Charming, as always, Jacky. Well, news flash: you don’t get to kick me out, so I’m not leaving either.”

“That’s more than fine by me,” he drawls.

I cross my arms. “Guess I’ll just have to tolerate your company then.”

Jackson leans forward, his gaze meeting mine in a challenge. “And I’ll happily entertain yours.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

There’s a pause before we break eye contact and whip out our phones at the same time. Maybe I’ll sit here with him, but I have no intention of actually making proper conversation with him.

I open my business Instagram account, replying to a few comments on my latest marketing post.

A new email notification from Ivy pops up on my screen.

My heart skips a beat as I read the subject line—Save the Date.

I know I shouldn’t give any more of my time or energy to Ivy. But there’s a small part of me that’s clinging to the hope that maybe her reaction earlier was only an in-the-moment thing and she’s since reflected on her behavior and changed her mind about having her engagement party on the same day as my fashion show.

Holding my breath, I open the email and scroll down to the time and date section. When I see her event is the same date as my fashion show, a sinking feeling unfolds in my chest.

Of course. Who am I kidding?

A long time ago, Ivy and I were close. We loved singing and reading together and raiding Mom’s closet as kids, even if it meant getting in trouble after. She helped me with my homework and taught me how to put on makeup, and I always went to her for big-sister advice, looked up to her.

One time, in fourth grade, a boy made fun of me for drawing while eating lunch, to the point that I burst into tears. I confided in Ivy, and the next day, she told him off so much that he looked like he was going to pee his pants. When I thanked her, she said she’d never let anyone hurt me and assured me that she’d always be my protective older sister.

Now, that all seems like a faraway, faint memory or a figment of my imagination.

I honestly don’t know what I did to make her so resentful toward me, but I know our relationship shifted during high school when she grew distant toward me. It never made sense because she was always the model student and daughter while I was just me. Clumsy, chaotic Isabelle.

One thing’s for sure: she won’t be getting an RSVP from me. Not that she probably cares anyway.

A burning sensation forms in my eyes, but I refuse to give in and let even the smallest tear trickle down my face. There’s no way I’m going to cry here—and especially not in front of Jackson.

I put my phone away and glance down at my sandals, getting ready to put on my best I’m okay face and pretend everything’s fine.

Because it is. It has to be. At the end of the day, life goes on, drama or not, and this is my life.

“Isabelle?”

I freeze, feeling like the world has come to a halt.

Wait a minute. Did I just hear that correctly?

“Isabelle,” Jackson says again, confirming I wasn’t imagining things. My name—my proper name—rolls smoothly off his tongue, like honey.

“Wow,” I say, still basking in shock and avoiding eye contact with him. “You finally got my name right.”

“Isabelle, what’s wrong?” Jackson’s voice is calming and demanding at the same time. It’s almost contradictory, yet ironically, contradictory seems to be the perfect word to describe my current relationship with him.

Because, on one hand, I constantly rant about how he’s this irritating presence in my life, how I want nothing to do with him. Yet, on the other hand, here I am, voluntarily conversing with him when I can be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Slowly, I bring myself to face him, glancing up to see drops of concern in his brown eyes. It’s like I’m seeing a new person. A version of Jackson Carter I didn’t know could exist. Or at least could exist when it comes to the two of us interacting.